Game Changer
by Super Widget
Summary: Moriarty needs someone new to play with. But when an ordinary woman throws a curve ball, the game changes. Who's rules is he playing by? Lame title I know. Please leave a review. Feedback is appreciated. Moriarty/OC
1. Chapter 1: Purple and Gold

Moriarty needed another human bomb. He had already chosen a couple of candidates for the task: the average Joe, the old age pensioner; ordinary civilians who's lives he was about to make a little extraordinary. He pondered about his next victim. A postman maybe. No, someone more cliché. An upper class woman perhaps. A princess. A damsel in distress. Yes, that was more like it. He knew just the place to find one too.

There was a bar-restaurant that Moriarty frequented when he felt he could tolerate being in a public space long enough. The people that wined and dined there were mostly upper class snobs, people who thought they were more superior than they actually were, when in fact they were no more significant than a burger-flipping schmoe. However, despite himself, he liked the establishment. There was usually a sharply dressed pianist playing his favourite classical pieces and a small reading area of sorts tucked away at one end of the restaurant where it was quieter. Chandeliers cascading with crystal dimly lit the room, and red velvet draped the long latticed windows. The aromas of steak and wine from the kitchen were ravishing. The establishment was dripping with luxurious atmosphere and Moriarty enjoyed soaking up every bit of it. But tonight he was not here for recreational reasons. Tonight he had to work.

As soon as he entered the restaurant, he spied his potential candidate sitting alone at the bar. She was waiting for someone. The seat next to her was empty but there was no drink on the bar top that indicated her company had temporarily stepped out. She was waiting a while. He could tell this by the almost empty flute glass she sipped from slowly, and her need to distract herself with her phone so that she didn't look like a recluse at the bar by herself. She wasn't waiting on a date. Her pristine makeup, purple silk blouse and expensive gold jewellery indicated she wanted to look pretty for the bar, but her pencil skirt and short heels said she was trying to look respectable for maybe a work colleague. That and her soft leather carry case indicated a casual business meeting of sorts. Moriarty contemplated seducing her. Her ring finger was bare, and taking into account she was a highly paid working woman, she probably didn't have time for a boyfriend. The company of a flirtatious gentleman might be what she needed to break up the monotony of her work life.

_Easy peasy_, Moriarty thought as he crossed the room towards the bar. He stood between the woman and the empty seat, leaning an elbow on the counter, with his body facing hers. She didn't look up from her phone. He beckoned the barman over and said, "I'll have a scotch on the rocks." He glanced at the woman who still paid no attention. "Actually, make it a double," he called after the bar man. The woman caught his gaze as she placed her empty glass on the counter. Moriarty put on a sort of guilty smile for her and said, "Rough day at the office."

"Understandable," she replied. She ordered a sparkling wine as the barman returned with the scotch.

"Are you here by yourself?" asked Moriarty, trying to ease into an approachable character. The woman gave him a look.

"I'm sorry," he said, pretending to be embarrassed, "I don't mean to be rude. I'm not trying to… I mean, I was just making conversation. I'll leave you alone." He stared into his glass and waited.

"I'm waiting for a colleague," came the reply.

_Boom, _thought Moriarty, _The lines of communication are open. That was too easy._

"Oh," he said, nonchalantly, "Been waiting long?"

"This is my second drink," she said.

"Ah! Well, I guess we're both having a bad day." Moriarty chuckled pleasantly as he sipped his scotch. The woman was still irritated, but he could tell that she didn't mind his company.

"I'm Richard, by the way," he lied through a warm smile.

"Samantha."

"So what do you do, Samantha?"

"I work at a law firm. Mostly small cases. I'm meeting with an associate to discuss business."

She was lying. There was something about the way she said that sentence that made it sound rehearsed. Suddenly, Moriarty was becoming more intrigued with this woman. Why was she lying? What was she hiding?

"Bugger it all!" she cried as she received a text message.

"Not happening tonight?" Moriarty said cautiously.

"His car broke down on a country road," she sighed, "The meeting is postponed. I might as well call a taxi now."

"That would be a pity."

"Huh?" Samantha cocked an eyebrow.

"I mean…" Moriarty put on a flustered Richard Brook, "You don't have to leave so soon. I mean, if you don't want. You still have a whole glass of wine left, it'd be rude to just leave it there."

A small smile tugged at the corner of Samantha's mouth. Moriarty had her. He was dressed in a fine suit, indicating a well-to-do businessman, but he acted shy and stuttery to show he was very human. Samantha seemed to like this. Ordinary people were so predictable. She sat back in her seat and took a drink from her glass.

"Ok, so what do you do, Richard?" she said.

"I crunch numbers, mostly for stock holders," Moriarty replied with a sigh and roll of his eyes.

"Sounds fun."

"It's not a very glamorous job, I can assure you."

"Tell me more." Moriarty hesitated. There was something in her eyes that suggested she wasn't just making casual conversation.

"I'd just bore you," he said softly, "Besides, I came here to forget about work." He took another swig from his drink.

"I might be able to help with that," said Samantha. She was flirting. Excellent. Moriarty shot her an impish Richard Brook smile and she smiled to herself glancing down at her glass shyly. He studied her appearance again. Her broad shaped face and semi-dark skin implied she had an Asian heritage but her features were Caucasian. She had full glossed lips and wide strikingly green eyes that contrasted with her deep purple blouse. Her gold chain and earrings were simple yet good quality and probably very expensive. _Purple and gold_, Moriarty thought, _colours of royalty_. Her smooth dark hair was tucked into a loose bun, but a few strands escaped and draped from behind her ears to her brow. She was pretty.

Moriarty realised he had just finished his scotch and with a jingle of the remaining ice he summoned the barman and ordered another.

"Round two," he said to Samantha, flashing his best smile.

They made much small talk through the evening. Samantha lied a lot, mostly about her background and her work. Moriarty wondered if she was trying to protect herself in some way. Whatever the reason, it was making his job a bit more difficult in the long run. Samantha talked about her hobbies and interests. Surprisingly, she had similar tastes to Moriarty. He was going to bring out the squash playing, film going Richard Brook, but she was being honest about that part of her and so he decided to also. She was intelligent for an ordinary person. Not the kind of intelligent person that regurgitated text books, but the kind that was quick minded and insightful. The kind of intelligent that was too intelligent for a bottom of the barrel, small case law job. So what was she hiding?

The more they talked, the more he drank and the more of a mystery this woman was to him. The scotch was going to his head and he was becoming human. He was enjoying this woman's company. He had almost forgotten he had intended to strap a bomb to her in the future. But he couldn't do that if he knew nothing about her other than her taste in music, and this frustrated him.

"Well, it's getting late, I better go," Samantha said suddenly.

"Go?" Moriarty bleated, realising how late it was.

"Yes, I still have that meeting in the morning," she replied throwing on a coat.

"But," Moriarty needed to know the truth about this woman, "Can I see you again?" Samantha smiled with a flattered expression in her eyes. She reached into her carry case and pulled out business card with her name and number on it.

"Call me," she said, "I'm available evenings and weekends." She stepped forward to tuck the card in his breast pocket. She then leaned in until her soft lips brushed his ear. She smelled of wine and perfume. Moriarty became very aware of where her hands were; one on his chest, the other leaning on his wrist that rested on his lap.

"It was a pleasure making your acquaintance," she whispered, "Mr. Moriarty." At the mention of his name, his jaw clenched. With that, Samantha took her leave and stepped into a taxi that was waiting outside the restaurant.

"The pleasure was all mine," murmured Moriarty as he was left alone with his drink and his thoughts


	2. Chapter 2: Realization Dawns

Moriarty awoke to the light splitting through his curtains. His head thumped a merciless hangover and his mouth was desperately dry. He reached for the glass of water on his bedside table and drank deeply until it was empty. With a gasp, he sat up straight and was bombarded with memories of the night before. The woman, Samantha, had toyed with him, playing dumb until the last minute. She knew who he was. How? Why? He grabbed his phone and punched in Mycroft Holmes' number.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" came Mycroft's voice smoothly.

"I'm not amused, Mr. Holmes," Moriarty grumbled.

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"Then I'll be blunt," Moriarty said condescendingly, "I will _kill_ the next agent you send to flirt with me." There was a silence. Moriarty had known for a while that Mycroft hired people to watch him.

"My…_agents_," Mycroft said cautiously, "are hired to watch from a distance. Nothing more."

"Hmm," Moriarty mused, sounding bored, "And I suppose your Samantha…" he read the business card on his locker, "…_Toulson_ was just disobeying orders?"

"There are three agents, Mr. Moriarty, all male. I have no one under the name of Toulson under my employment. You can check my records if you like, though I doubt you require my permission."

"No, I don't," Moriarty growled, disgusted he was getting nowhere, "Sorry to interrupt you from your frivolous life." He hung up before Mycroft could get another word in. He then dialled the number on the business card he was given, a little unsure what to say to the person on the other end.

"_The number you have dialled is not in service -"_

Moriarty flung the phone across the room in a burst of frustration. He had no way to contact her. Her name was probably fake. Her business was more than likely fake. The story about the meeting she was supposed to have was probably all a lie too. What was she really up to last night? Whoever this woman really was, she now officially posed a threat to him, and Moriarty didn't like this one bit


	3. Chapter 3: A Game of Wits

Samantha had chosen a spot in the hotel lounge, away from prying eyes and security cameras, to do some homework. She scrolled and flicked through her electronic tablet, sifting through records, files and photos of the notorious James Moriarty. To say she was impressed was an understatement. This man was at the heart of a multifarious web of crime, both petty and large scale, of which many of its threads extended globally. Even recently he had blown roughly thirty million pounds on hit men, C4 and networking technology, amongst other things, just to torment the famous detective Sherlock Holmes. Moriarty was serious business.

"Like what you see?" purred a familiar voice behind her. Samantha smiled, switched her tablet to hibernate and tucked it into her leather carry case.

"What took you so long to find me?" she said. James Moriarty rounded the sofa and faced her. He looked rather dashing with his tailored grey suit and his brown hair pristinely slicked back. He carried a coy smile but the glint in his eye was cold, murderous.

"I'm sorry," he said, his face a caricaturised expression of apology, "I've had my hands tied up the last few days, in case you haven't noticed."

"Yes, you've been quite the busy bee," Samantha replied politely, then gestured to the sofa opposite, "Please join me, won't you?"

"Do you want to know how I found you?" Moriarty goaded mischievously, taking a seat and swinging his legs over the arm of the chair.

"You got the license plate of my taxi from the restaurant's security footage and traced its journey to this hotel. I know, it's all in here," Samantha tapped her carry case, "Though I pretty much left those goal posts wide open for you anyway."

"It's almost as if you wanted to be found," mused Moriarty, "I get that a lot though. I tell you, no matter how much they deny it, the ladies can't get enough of the Jimster." Samantha shook her head incredulously. So this was the great consultant criminal, evil genius and master of manipulation. He had the idiosyncrasy of a spoilt child. She almost preferred Richard Brook.

"Do you know why you're here, Mr. Moriarty?" she asked.

"If I had to be obvious I'd say you're looking to blackmail me with the content of your little bag of goodies there," Moriarty shrugged.

"_Blackmail_?" Samantha laughed with genuine amusement, "Goodness, no! I could bankrupt the country with the information I have here."

"Oh, you're not going to try and _arrest _me are you?" He rolled his eyes. Samantha erupted, her laughter catching the attention of other people in the lounge. Moriarty stared at her callously until she managed to compose herself.

"Are you quite done?" he said. She nodded as she dried her teary eyes with a napkin.

"I imagine you have a few questions," she said, trying to be serious again, "Who am I? Who do I work for? How do I know everything about you?"

"But you're not going to tell me."

Samantha could tell she was really pushing his buttons. She leaned forward and he responded in kind until their faces were inches apart. He was exasperated. His eyes bore into hers with fierce intensity. If looks could kill, Samantha would be six feet under by now.

"Would you like a hint?" she said eventually. When he wouldn't respond she said, "I already gave you a hint the night we met."

"The business card."

"Bingo!" she whispered, "So what say you, Mr. Moriarty? Up for a little game?"

"I don't have time for games."

"You don't have a choice."

"What if I were to just kill you?" Moriarty said slowly, his voice low and menacing.

"My employer will send someone else."

"What if I refuse to play?"

"I'll kill Sherlock." Samantha had her suspicions about his obsession toward the great detective and it only took a fraction of a second, in which Moriarty's facial muscles twitched in response, to confirm them.

"I have to go," he said at a length. He stood and proceeded towards to front door.

"I'll be in touch," Samantha called after him. When she could no longer hear his footsteps she reached for her phone and began to text her employer: _"I hate to say I told you so…"_


	4. Chapter 4: Playing Detective

Moriarty's head buzzed like a tormented bee hive. This woman was becoming a right thorn in his side. She wanted him to figure out who she was. _Why? _He had enough on his mind with Ms. Adler and the Holmes brothers, but if he didn't play by her rules she would kill Sherlock and all his planning and hard work would be for naught.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted by his vibrating phone. With a huff he unlocked his phone to realise he was receiving multimedia messages. They were all photos of Sherlock Holmes leaving 221B Baker Street, dressed in a white bed sheet.

"Funny little man," he said to himself, though he thought this would be enough to distract the detective and buy him some time. He could kill two birds with one stone. He forwarded the images to Irene Adler with the message, _"I have a special treat for you…" _

The hotel's registry wasn't difficult to hack into, but of all 29 residents that were staying there, none fell under the name of Samantha Toulson. Moriarty figured it wouldn't be _that_ simple. He ran through the names of all the female residents and only one came up as a possibility. The name she used was Renata Delapuert and she was the only woman whose check-in date coincided with the night they first met. Anyone else who checked in within that timeline had checked out a few days ago, making it a little unlikely that any of one of them was the woman he was talking to in the hotel earlier. There were possible variables of course but Moriarty put a pin on them for the time being. It seemed that Ms. Delapuert was due to take her leave two days ago but had apparently extended her stay.

Moriarty was a little disappointed by how easy all of this was. He had information about what room she was staying in, what she eats for breakfast and, more importantly, her email address and contact number. He was beginning to wonder if any of this was worth any of his time.

He hadn't realised how dark it had gotten until his phone garishly lit with the promise of an incoming text. He assumed it was from Ms. Adler but the sender was actually not listed in his phonebook. It read:

"_Well aren't you a clever clogs ;)" _

Moriarty smiled. She was starting to make it interesting again. Before he could respond he received another saying:

"_Why did I gave you a phoney business card?"_

Moriarty considered this for a moment. He had studied the card before he set out to meet the woman earlier. There was nothing strange about it. There were no clues or possible codes or anagrams. There was simply _nothing _remarkable about the fake business card.

And then something occurred to him. He remembered when she leaned into him to slip the card into his pocket. Both her hands were touching him in that moment. Her left hand on his chest, and her right… Moriarty was wearing the same watch he wore that night. He flicked on his desk lamp and removed the watch studying it carefully. He noticed something on the clasp that he hadn't seen before. It was a tiny metallic button held on by a magnetic force. It was a bug.


	5. Chapter 5: In the Palm of Your Hand

_**Author's note: Sorry for my long absence. I've been away from the computer for too long. I didn't really have much faith in this story until I realised how many people started following it. I appreciate it. So, I'll keep going if you guys want me to. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter. **_

The double doors to Moriarty's study burst open and there stood two of his employees with the wretched woman in their captivity.

"Found her skulking around in the bushes outside, Mr. Moriarty," said one, "She said she was lost and then tried to run away. What should we do with her?" Moriarty stood from his desk and approached the woman. She refused to stand, making herself a dead weight to the thugs. Moriarty studied her for a moment and she stared up at him with a ferocity in her olive green eyes. She was casually dressed in black leggings, a dark green vest and soft tennis shoes. To any ordinary person she would have looked like a jogger, but Moriarty knew she had chosen her attire carefully so she could spy on him. She wore a Bluetooth device in one ear, a pair of binoculars around her neck and a belt around her waist with four pouches attached; one contained her phone, judging by its bulge. Her hair was pulled back in a very tight bun. She had a lean physique. Her hands were veined and calloused, their muscle definition indicated she was ambidextrous with a gun.

"Take her gear," said Moriarty without moving his eyes from her, "Man the doors outside. If she tries to leave, shoot her." The thugs complied, removing her belt, binoculars and earpiece and then leaving, shutting the doors behind them. The woman remained in a slumped position on the hardwood floor. The sun was setting through the tall window casting a lattice of gold and shadow across the room. Darkness dwelled in corners the light refused to touch.

"What am I going to do with you?" Moriarty said dismally, cupping his chin in one hand. The woman smiled shyly as if embarrassed about receiving a compliment.

"You should fire those guards of yours," she said, "Took them an hour before they found me, and that was only because I let them find me."

"Yes well, you get what you pay for," he sighed, pacing slowly, "Oh, do get up," he added irritably, "You're making the place look untidy." She stood but remained in her position, smiling coyly at the man.

"I spotted one of Mycroft's boys out there," she said, "I'm surprised no one else has noticed."

"Mycroft can snoop all he likes. I've nothing to hide from him."

"Is all this about Sherlock?"

Moriarty paused. He wasn't sure if she had intended on sabotaging his plans or if she was just trying to catch his attention.

"You know far more about me than I'm comfortable with," he said, choosing his words carefully, "What do you want for the information? Money?"

"I told you I wasn't going to blackmail you," she laughed.

"It's not blackmail, it's a bribe."

She crossed her arms over her chest and tilted her head to the side.

"It's just research," she said matter-of-factly, "I have no intention of using it against you."

"Then _what _do you _want_ of me?" Moriarty suddenly bellowed, his voice echoing around the study. Her perpetual smile infuriated him. She was teasing him.

"A drink," she replied.

"What?"

"I'm thirsty!"

This was her game. He had to play by her rules, it was the only way he could get anywhere with this. He strode indignantly to the liquor cabinet and removed two tumblers and a crystal decanter of brandy. He could do with a drink himself.

"Take a seat," he sighed, motioning vaguely towards the leather suite in the corner. He placed the decanter and tumblers on the glass coffee table and sat in the armchair opposite the woman. He poured two drinks and sat back with one leg crossed over the other.

"So should I call you Samantha or Renata or…?" he asked, sipping his drink tentatively.

"Samantha," she said, "Or Sam. Or Sammy. That's kind of cute don't you think?"

"That's not your real name though, is it?"

She shook her head, a soft sadness painting her features.

"My name is whatever I want it to be," she said.

Moriarty was starting to get the picture. This woman didn't exist except for on documents she forged. Her accent, which he originally thought to be British, was flecked with European undertones. She rolled her R's slightly and her K's were sharp in her throat. She had the accent of a well travelled person. He suspected she was a vagrant or an orphan. She didn't have a place in this world except with her employer.

"You're with secret service," he concluded.

"No. Well, not any that you've heard of anyway. Wouldn't be a secret otherwise," she replied with a mischievous grin.

"You're annoying me now."

"I know."

Moriarty glared at her. He could have her killed right here, right now. She knew that. Yet she was constantly toying with him. She wasn't afraid of him, and that did not sit right with Moriarty.

"So why is your employer so interested in little old me?" he said, pouring another drink.

"We've been watching you for quite some time," she said, tracing the rim of her glass with her finger, "You've built up quite the reputation. You're a genius, Moriarty, a criminal mastermind."

"Oh, stop, you're going to give me a big head," he gushed.

"We think you'll be a valuable asset to our…company."

There was a pause.

"You want me to work for you," Moriarty stated flatly.

"For my employer," she cooed, "Your talent could go to-"

"Not interested."

"But just think of all you can-"

"Not _interested_," Moriarty sang, examining his cuticles.

Samantha huffed, put down her drink and got up to sit on the arm of Moriarty's chair.

"Well, just _think _for a moment," she said softly in his ear. She wore the same perfume the first night they met. "You won't have to put up with all these ordinary people anymore. You'll be working with people like you. You'll be _challenged_."

"And what exactly is it that I'll be doing?" he asked, staring straight in front of him. Samantha slid onto his lap, curling her legs around his. Moriarty was unable to determine whether he was in immediate danger or not.

"Anything you want," she purred.

"I do that anyway," he sneered, boring his black eyes into hers.

"But with us," she whispered, tracing his chest with her fingertips, "You'll have more power than you can imagine. You'll have the whole world in the palm of your hand." Her lips met his and lingered until he responded by kissing her in return. She sighed seductively as he pulled her into him, his arm cradling around the back of her knees. He let his free hand glide up her arm towards her shoulder and her neck, where he dug his thumb and index finger around her windpipe. He squeezed just enough to subdue her and not cut off her air supply. With her legs locked around his body and her throat vulnerable, there wasn't a move she could make without damaging her windpipe.

"I'm sorry, dear," Moriarty said in mock apology, "It's not you, it's me. I just have…_trust_ issues. I hope you understand."

Samantha's expression was a mixture of anxiety and hatred. Her olive eyes smouldered with an intensity that brought a smile to Moriarty.

"But if you needed a place to stay for the night, you only had to say so," he patronized. He called his thugs who arrived instantly at the doors.

"Escort this lady to the attic room," he said, giving Samantha a wink, "Make sure she's comfortable."

The thugs pulled her away, locking her arms behind her back.

"You're making a mistake!" she spat as she was dragged out of the room.

Moriarty ignored her. He finished his drink and remained in his chair until the darkness swallowed him whole.


	6. Chapter 6: Game Changer

_**Author's note: Sorry yet again for my long absence. A lot of stuff has come up in the last few months and I haven't been able to spend any time on this. I wrote a slightly longer chapter this time and I thank you for your patience, assuming anyone is still there. If you hadn't guessed, the timeline in my story is running parallel with the series and if I have made any errors in that, please don't hesitate to point them out. Thanks, folks! =)**_

He awoke with a start and realised he had fallen asleep in the chair. He stretched, hearing the bones in his stiff neck and back crack all at once, and paused mid-stretch as something on his sleeve caught his eye. A piece of paper had been clipped to his jacket with a hair pin. Moriarty unfolded the paper and in delicate writing he read:

_Thanks for the drink! xxx _

He examined the hair pin: malleable, yet sturdy enough to pick a lock.

"Sir!"

One of his henchmen stood at the doors, nursing a head wound.

"Where is she?" Moriarty demanded, dreading the answer.

"She…she got away," the man replied dumbly.

Moriarty sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Maintaining his composure around idiots was becoming increasingly difficult.

"You're fired," he said.

His employee hesitated, lingering at the door.

"Get OUT!" Moriarty roared, his temper cut short. The man fled without a word.

There had been no sign of Samantha over the following weeks. Moriarty hoped that he had scared her off, or at least taken his refusal to work with her seriously.

He continued to busy himself with his own plans, watching from afar as Irene Adler tried to tug the heartstrings of poor Sherlock Holmes. It was amusing to watch the dominatrix toy with the virgin. She could have anyone she wanted. Except Sherlock. This frustrated her and predictably Moriarty noticed her starting to fall for the detective. This didn't concern him terribly. Adler was too proud to express her emotions. She would still get the job done and that was all he needed.

Despite lack of contact from Samantha, Moriarty had grown paranoid. He sent images of the woman to his clients in case she was still lingering about his business. He changed abode frequently, sweeping each building for bugs or cameras. No doubt, he was on edge, his nerves wound tighter than a piano string. Was this her intention? Was she trying to distract him from his work? It disturbed him, the thought that she was constantly watching over his shoulder, the thought that he had no control over her. He hated her with a passion, yet, now and then, his mind lingered back to the kiss they shared. She was trying to seduce him, that he knew. It was all just her ploy to convince him to work with her. But with that rationalisation in mind, he couldn't understand why he continued to think about the kiss.

Months had passed. The investigations of Moriarty's crew turned up nothing. Samantha had vanished without a trace. Moriarty was relieved and felt he was in the clear. If she wanted him that badly, he'd have known it by now.

It was a particularly sunny morning in London when Moriarty received a text from Irene Adler.

747 TOMORROW 6.30PM HEATHROW

Finally! The code had been cracked. Moriarty was impressed with both Adler and Sherlock, and now he had the perfect ammunition against Mycroft. If he didn't have the Iceman's attention before, he certainly had it now. He texted:

Jumbo Jet. Dear me Mr. Holmes, dear me.

He blew raspberries into the wind in derision, the following steps of his plan already falling into place. Oh, how he was about to turn the Holmes boys' world upside down. He dropped the phone into his coat pocket and stepped onto the pedestrian crossing. As he did so, someone briskly caught up with him, slipping an arm through his.

"Oh, god, not you," he muttered.

Samantha beamed back at him. She wore her hair down today and it cascading passed her shoulders in loose waves. Her ensemble consisted of a simple white blouse, skinny jeans and red pumps. She looked very ordinary.

"Coffee?" she proposed.

"No," he replied, though he was already being veered towards the nearest café. Samantha sat at a small, round outdoor table under a green parasol, and motioned for Moriarty to join her. He checked the time on his watch and reckoned he could probably spare a few minutes. In spite of himself, he was curious as to what prompted the woman's sudden appearance. He sat at the table opposite, just as a waiter approached. Samantha made a ridiculously complicated order of coffee, while Moriarty requested a tea.

"So!" she piped, once they were alone again, "It's been a while hasn't it? Miss me?"

"Darling, the happiest I've been since our last encounter was when I've had dreams about killing you," Moriarty replied drearily, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head.

"Oh, don't be like that," she teased, "Sorry I rushed off in such a hurry the last time. Duty calls and all that."

"Can you please get to the part where you insist I come work with you, so I can say no and be on my way," he huffed, checking his watch again.

"Patience, Mr. Moriarty, is a virtue."

The waiter returned with their beverages, asked if there was anything else they needed and left when the response was no.

"Sorry, darling, I'm just dreadfully busy these days. You know how it is," Moriarty replied stirring sugar into his tea.

"Yes, I know exactly what you've been up to these days," Samantha replied coyly, "I just haven't been able to decide whether you're going somewhere with the jumbo jet debacle, or if you just like being a naughty boy."

"Both." Moriarty held her gaze as he brought the cup to his lips. He wondered what she was thinking. Did she admire him? Or maybe she feared him. He didn't mind either way.

"It was all very clever really," Samantha continued, absently stirring the froth on her coffee, "The saucy dominatrix and socially awkward prude. Does she get you off?"

"Who?"

"Ms. Adler. She's the only one who seems to be able to get into Sherlock's head. That must make you very-"

"Get to your point, woman," Moriarty snapped, his patience wearing thin. Samantha smiled in, what Moriarty assumed to be, triumph. She then propped her leather carry case on her lap and pulled out her tablet.

"Remember all that _really_ personal stuff I keep in here about you?" she said switching the tablet on, "And how I said I wouldn't use it to blackmail you?"

"You lied," Moriarty replied, deadpan.

"Well, no, I didn't _lie_. I just changed my mind."

"Petty," he sniffed, "I expected more from you."

"Oh, but it gets better!" She handed him the tablet and on its screen was a tabloid article with his picture on the front page. The headline read: **James Moriarty: Britain's Dumbest Criminal Arrested. **The article was dated two weeks from the present.

"I…see," Moriarty said, at last feeling a slight trepidation set in.

"For the record," Samantha replied, "I don't think you're dumb. But I can make the world think you're dumb. See, I can take all your files here and twist them whichever way I want. I figure if you were ever to be locked away, it would be for something scrupulously nefarious, and you would go down in history as the great James Moriarty, the world's only consulting criminal." She took a sip of her coffee and smiled wickedly. "But I have the power to undo all that. I can destroy you and your criminal name, and you will go down in history as the world's stupidest criminal that ever was."

"That would never do," Moriarty said vacantly, still studying the tabloid.

"Since I'm generous," the woman said as she snapped her tablet from him, "I'll give you some time to think about it. But rest assured, I will be watching you. If you try any funny business in that time, there will be no more options for you."

Moriarty remained silent as he finished his tea, eyes boring intensely into hers. This wasn't right. He needed to fix things. He needed a game changer.

"I did miss you though," she said, almost lovingly.


	7. Chapter 7: The Complication

It was 10 AM. Samantha lay awake studying the interior of the apartment her employer was renting for her. She was having trouble getting out of bed these mornings. She had never been on the field this long before and she often had thoughts about giving up. Weeks had passed and Moriarty had still not given in. Samantha was irritated with the case she was given. She knew she was being tested, knew she had to work alone. If she couldn't break Moriarty her only option was force, and she knew that she couldn't take him on single handed, not when he had snipers camouflaged against half of London. He was difficult. Did he know he was driving her this crazy? The game was becoming too elaborate. For every move she made, she tried to predict five more Moriarty could possibly make in return. She was constantly thinking ahead, trying to stay on top of the game, trying to keep the upper hand. But Moriarty's obsession with Sherlock meant she was just swatted away like a common fly every time she approached him, and this frustrated her to no end. Her threat to kill Sherlock wasn't working. Did Moriarty know she wasn't allowed to touch him? Sherlock was too much in the spotlight anyway and she had no intent of drawing any attention to herself by him or his fans. Besides, cleaning up after his murder would be a nightmare. Samantha had decided to hit Moriarty's soft spot, his ego. He worked so hard to be the most elusive criminal and having his name dragged through the dirt was his worst fear…at least she hoped it was.

Her heart jumped has her phone vibrated obnoxiously against the dresser. She stared at it for a moment as if it were an alien object, her face half buried in pillow. Was it Moriarty? She snatched it, checking the incoming caller and gave a disappointed sigh when she realised it was her boss.

"Good morning," she answered, pulling the duvet to her neck with her free hand.

"Still in bed, agent?" a deep voice replied, "I assume you haven't checked the paper yet."

"No. Why?"

"Moriarty is in custody."

"What?" Samantha sat upright.

"Triple heist. They're calling it the crime of the century. He's due to appear in court shortly."

"Well you've got to send some of our people into that jury," Samantha pleaded, "Moriarty could go away for life, we can't let that happen!"

"You're slipping, agent," the voice replied, "Moriarty has gone from non-existent to nationally infamous overnight. There's only so much red tape _I_ can cut through without it being traced back to the agency. This is your case. Fix it."

"But-" Her employer hung up.

"Shit!" she hissed, her head in her hands.


	8. Chapter 8: The Final Problem

_**Author's note: Hey folks! Sorry about dragging this out for so long. I kinda wrote myself into a corner here and I'm trying to work out of it. Keep the faith. It gets more exciting in the next chapters =)**_

Samantha waited in the visitor's hall as Moriarty was being escorted over by two patrol officers.

"You have five minutes," said one of the officers.

Moriarty sat across the table from Samantha. There was a long silence between them as they both studied each other expectantly. He was looking pristine as usual, wearing a clean grey suit and a diamond pin in his cream coloured tie. He smiled jovially.

"Seriously?" was all she could say.

Moriarty lifted his arms, tugging at his handcuffs to show they were genuine.

"So you think you can get away from me by having yourself arrested?" she questioned, one eyebrow arched in scepticism.

"Oh, my dear, it's not always about you. Get over yourself," he replied with a derisive chuckle.

"So it's about _you _then? Were you so afraid of having your name tarnished that you had to beat me to the headlines?"

"I didn't realise we were still playing that game."

Samantha sat back in her seat, observing the man. His expression was unreadable, his features impassive. What was going on in that mind of his?

"Though I'll admit that you gave me a little inspiration," Moriarty said, "I wouldn't be here if not for you. You probably should have just had your way with me the last time we met. You're such an awful tease, you know."

Samantha wasn't about to show her hand. The agency restricted her from certain activities on this mission but she couldn't let Moriarty know that. Her elusiveness was what kept him on edge. She knew it drove him insane.

"I volunteered for jury duty," she changed the subject.

"You just can't get enough of me, can you?" he purred.

Samantha paused. Before, his childish rebuttals were just playful. Now, however, he seemed to be genuinely flirting. She leaned forward, placing her elbows on the table.

"What is all of this about exactly?" she asked, gesturing towards the handcuffs.

"That's the problem isn't it?" he replied cryptically, "The final problem."

She frowned, struggling to grasp his meaning.

"You should have kept a tighter leash on me, honey," Moriarty continued, "Your game got boring. I've moved on. Got bigger fish to fry." His cold, black eyes stayed on hers and she returned his gaze.

"Well," she said softly, "I'm just going to have to win you back then, aren't I?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"I'd be disappointed if you didn't try," he said.

"Time's up!" The patrol officers flanked Moriarty.

"Excuse me," he said, standing up, "I have to go back to jail now."

"I'll see you in court," Samantha replied as the officers took Moriarty away.


	9. Chapter 9: The Turn

_**Author's note: Just wanna say thanks to everyone for the kind comments and follows. I'll try update as often as I can. Hope you enjoy this chapter =)**_

Samantha had everything worked out in her head. She had mentally rehearsed her speech for the jury over and over until she herself was convinced Moriarty should walk free. And so she was taken by surprise when one member of the jury gave a "not guilty" verdict. Samantha listened with fascination as the woman explained how a triple heist by a lone man was impossible, how they should be finding the real perpetrators, how Sherlock's deduction was not enough to convict Moriarty. She could tell that the woman didn't believe her own words, her body language was rigid and her eyes fell upon the rest of the jury almost pleadingly. She was even more surprised when the other members were so quick to agree.

_Unbelievable, _she thought, _Moriarty has gotten to every member of the jury_.

So this was all just a publicity stunt? Was he advertising himself? How had the agency not picked up on any of this before?

"Ms. Coulter!" an irate man's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

"Yes?" she replied with a start.

"Your verdict!"

Samantha hesitated, becoming aware of the eleven pairs of eyes that stared at her.

"Oh," she said, "Eh…not guilty."

And that was that. Moriarty was a free man. As the court disbanded Samantha started in pursuit of Moriarty, but then she received a text from the agency:

**Rendezvous at the apartment ASAP**

She let out a sigh of exasperation and watched as Moriarty became lost in the barrage of press that was waiting for him outside the courtroom. She had an idea what he was up to. He would have to wait for now.

She arrived back at the apartment to find a dead woman lying on the floor. She froze, staring at the body, trying to identify any immediate threat. The woman had been shot through the chest. Samantha shut the door behind her and went to examine the body, looking for clues as to who she was. She lifted the woman's t-shirt and found what she was searching for: a six digit number tattooed on her left rib cage, the number given to all field agents as identification.

"She was my rendezvous," Samantha said to herself, "So who shot her?"

A man with a gun emerged from her bedroom and quicker than instinct she dove to the side avoiding the shot that could have killed her. She rolled forward, rising to strike her assailant's triceps, deadening his arm. She tore the gun from his limp wrist and pointed it to his temple.

"Anyone else here?" she whispered, with her arm around his neck.

"N-no!" the man gasped loudly, "Just me." Something stirred in the bedroom. Samantha pulled the trigger, letting the body slump to the ground and cautiously searched the bedroom, her gun in front of her. Everything seemed relatively undisturbed. She was beginning to get the impression that a hit was sent for her and that the other agent was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. There was no doubt about who was behind it but the real question was why.

Suddenly, someone grabbed Samantha from behind, tightening a chord around her neck. She panicked, grasping at the chord, trying to squeeze her fingers under it. She flailed and thrashed but her assailant's grip was unyielding. She started to feel light headed. She was suffocating. She aimed the gun, pulled the trigger and gasped a lung full of air as the chord released from her throat. She swerved with her gun pointed before her, but barely registered the screams of the man she shot as she coughed and wheezed her lungs into normal rhythm again. For a moment both Samantha and her attacker did nothing. The assassin was on the floor with his hands clutching his bloodied foot.

"How did you find me?" Samantha said eventually, through laboured breaths.

The man shook his head, his features twisted in anguish. Samantha crouched to his level and pounded a fist into his injured foot. He roared in pain.

"How!?" she demanded, pushing the barrel of the gun to his throat.

"We were just told to come here," he whimpered, "I don't know how he found you, I swear. I don't even know how he found _us_!"

"Who?" she asked, though she knew, she needed confirmation.

"Moriarty!"

By now tears were streaming down his face. Samantha glanced at his foot. Judging by the wound, she reckoned the bullet went right through his metatarsals.

"And the woman in there?" she said, referring to the dead agent.

"She was here when we arrived," the man groaned, "She was going through some stuff. We thought she was _you_. When we realised she wasn't we sent you a message from her phone."

Alarm bells started to ring in her head.

"What…_stuff _was she going through exactly?" she asked cautiously.

"I don't know. The bookshelf. Looking through it, looking behind. Like she lost something."

Samantha's mind raced. An agent had been sent to sweep her apartment? Sweep it for what?

"Are you going to kill me or what?" the assassin demanded.

"No," she said, after a moment, "You're going to take me to Moriarty."

"You've got to be kidding me," the man laughed almost deliriously.

"That depends on how much you value your other foot I suppose," she replied casually.


	10. Chapter 10: A Good Day

It was in an abandoned train station that Moriarty waited to make the payment. He was surprised that the men he hired were competent enough to do their job (or at least one of them was), and he was also a little disappointed that the woman Samantha didn't make it out alive. She really did seem to have his best interests at heart having gone through the effort of jury duty and all. Not to worry. He was still having a good day. The trial went exactly as planned, his chat with Sherlock was most pleasant and he only needed to pay one assassin instead of two. _A good day indeed_, he thought, taking a bite out of his sandwich and sitting back on the bench.

He heard footsteps approaching.

"Ah! Mr. Gibson," he said jovially, grabbing the briefcase full of cash as he stood. His pleasant demure faded quickly when he met his hitman who was being held at gunpoint. There she was, that wretched woman alive and kicking.

"Mr. Gibson," Moriarty sighed dismally, "I don't take kindly to people who lie about getting a job done for me."

"It wasn't _my_ fault," Gibson cried, evidently in pain, "It was-"

_Peeooooooow!_

The sound of the gun shot crackled in the air for a moment before dissipating, and Gibson fell backward hitting the ground hard. Samantha jumped back with fright, moving away from the body and regaining her composure to train her gun on Moriarty.

"Ah-_ah_!" he said as if scolding a child, and pointed to the red dot that appeared on Samantha's chest. "That's Sebastian by the way. Say _hello_!" Moriarty waved towards the distance behind him and the red dot wiggled in response.

"And I've been nothing but nice to you," Samantha quipped coolly.

Moriarty took another bite of his sandwich and regarded her thoughtfully. She looked different than she did this morning when she was dressed proper and business-like for court. Now she was wearing a pair of jeans with brown boots and a brown leather jacket. Her hair was in a respectable ponytail and a backpack hung from her shoulders. She looked as though she was prepared for travel.

"Try not to take it too personally," he said apologetically, "It's not that I don't _like _you, it's just that I've got a good thing going right now and I can't have you mess it all up."

"So you tried to kill me," she said flatly.

"Weeeeell…yeah… but I didn't _really _intend to. I just needed to…distract you for a bit."

Samantha strode forward, pressing the barrel of the gun under his chin.

"Distraction's over," she said, "I'm tired of playing nice."

Moriarty held one hand up indicating to Sebastian to not shoot, as the red dot moved to her temple.

"You know, if I die, you die," said Moriarty matter-of-factly.

"Win-win," Samantha shrugged.

A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. She was tenacious. She wasn't afraid to die and Moriarty reckoned she probably welcomed it. He wondered what she really feared.

"You know, your fingerprints are all over the gun that killed two people back at the apartment," he said, "I've already called the police giving a witness account."

"Please," snorted Samantha, "I have a much higher authority than the police."

"Ah yes, what's your position again?" Moriarty pretended to think hard, "42-12-19?"

Samantha's jaw dropped, her pupils shrank to pinpoints, her body rigid. A wide smile broke on Moriarty's face, soaking in the pleasure he took from her shock alone.

"Oh, that is just _precious_!" he beamed, "Really, I'm just going to have to savour this expression forever, it's just too delicious." He stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth and pulled out his phone to take her picture.

"See?" he said, with his mouth full, showing her the photo, "This is going to be my wallpaper for the rest of the year!"

"H-how?" she stammered, showing weakness for the first time since they met.

Moriarty held up a finger as he chewed the rest of his sandwich before swallowing it.

"Well," he gestured boastfully, "There was that little bug you planted on me during our first encounter. I reverse engineered it, put it back together, but reprogrammed the destination it sent GPS signals to. And then on our _last_ encounter I stuck it to-"

"My bloody tablet," Samantha groaned.

"Yes!" Moriarty was getting giddy now. He loved showing off. "I knew exactly where you were, any time, any day. And once I got my hands on your tablet, well you're really not going to _believe_ the information I scoured from it. Conspiracy nuts would have a field day!"

"The only information I had on that thing was about you," Samantha intervened.

"Well, yes, but you had to stream it from your company's cloud server, which once I managed to hack into, I had full access to all of your employer's super sensitive information."

Samantha paced back and forth, her hand on her forehead, trying to make sense of it all.

"Well…" she struggled, "So? My employer trusts me. They'll know what really happened to that agent once I give my alibi. What are you trying to threaten me with exactly?"

"See, you…(and by you I mean me with your password and secret agent identification number) may have…_leaked_ some of that data to some very high up people. And then you (and by you I mean me) may have blackmailed your own employer by threatening to expose the agency to the world."

Moriarty paused for dramatic effect. Samantha was now shaking.

"I put a signal blocker in your apartment so they couldn't contact you," Moriarty continued, soaking up every bit of the woman's grief, "That's probably what the agent was looking for before one of my boys shot her."

"But I got a phone call from the agency before the trial!"

"You sure it was who you thought it was?" he said a little patronizingly.

Samantha was stunned. Moriarty was doing cartwheels inside his head. He broke her. He finally broke her. Everything she'd ever worked for was crashing down around her ears, and Moriarty was loving every bit of it.

"I called a courier to pick us up," she said, suddenly alarmed, "They should be here any minute."

"What ever will you do?" said Moriarty in mock sympathy.

"I- I don't know," and then her expression hardened, "Fix this," she demanded, pointing the gun again.

From outside the station a car horn sounded.

"That's my ride," he replied, "Come with me. I think we can come to a negotiation."

"Why on Earth-?"

With an obnoxious sigh, Moriarty pushed the gun aside and pulled her close to kiss her.

"Because I like you. There, I said it," he sulked, "Now are you coming or what?"


	11. Chapter 11: Desire

_**Author's Note: Hi folks! Sorry for the wait. Can't believe the amount of followers this story has accumulated since my last chapter. You guys rock! On another note, I'm growing concerned my characters aren't shining through enough, particularly my OC…is she too Mary Sue? Thoughts please. xx**_

Samantha sat behind the passenger seat, her head resting against the window. She could feel Moriarty's gaze on her from across the backseat. She was upset, angry, humiliated. She didn't want him to see her like this, not when he already had the upper hand. She remained silent while her thoughts raced in her brain. God, she never felt more vulnerable. Her position in the agency was compromised because she had been too cocky. She wanted to toy with Moriarty, control him, instead her hesitance to follow through with her mission had given him the window of opportunity he needed to retaliate against her. And now she was here in the back of his car, wanted dead or alive by her own employer. She knew well the consequences rogue agents faced.

_Stupid girl_, she thought bitterly. She had to fix this.

"So!" piped Moriarty, as if trying to break an awkward silence, "I got you good didn't I?"

"You haven't won yet, Mr. Moriarty," Samantha grumbled, her gaze remaining on the scenic back-roads that passed by.

"Oh please, we're waaaay beyond formalities by now. Call me Jim."

_Right, "formalities", _she thought, her mind flashing back to that kiss.

"So, should I call you '42-12-19' or…?"

Samantha's head whipped round to face him. "No one outside of the agency is supposed to know my ID," she said firmly, "You could get yourself into a lot of trouble. You have no _idea _what these people are capable of."

"Actually, I do," Moriarty replied, wincing in mock guilt.

"Oh, right, your great hacking skills. How on earth did you find an access point to the database anyway? And from my tablet? There's just no way!" She regretted that question instantly as Moriarty heaved his chest out, a smug grin on his face. He wanted to show off, and she was enabling him.

"The military are working on a prototype aircraft to avoid visible detection. It involves a reflective material that makes the vehicle look like sky. This is exactly what your company's firewall does. You never knew there was an access point because the firewall made it look like there was nothing there. Whenever you got anywhere close to it, it bounced you back to your browser or OS or whatever."

"Huh," Samantha frowned. She always thought that she was trusted by her employer. Why did they feel the need to keep secrets from their own agents? "And how did you even _find _the firewall? How did you get passed it?" she asked, indignantly.

"You forget I'm a professor in mathematics," he boasted gleefully, "The cryptography was almost impressive, but not advanced enough for me. It was easy peasy."

Samantha huffed, reverting her gaze beyond the car window. The sun had just dipped behind the horizon and stars began to appear in the indigo sky. The surroundings had become very…rural.

"Where are you taking me?" Samantha inquired worryingly.

"Somewhere safe," came the reply.

The car stopped outside a large, very old looking country house of granite masonry. The preceding driveway was lit by flanking outdoor lamps, leading to the grand wooden front door. The house was surrounded by fields and they were a good mile from the main road.

"What is this place?" Samantha asked, awed by the grandeur.

"A sort of holiday home," Moriarty replied unbuckling his seatbelt, "I come here to get away from work or just the hubbub of London city."

"Why are we here?"

"Because no one knows this house exists. No one will find you here."

Samantha's phone rang. She hadn't realised she had three missed calls since she left the train station.

"They're looking for me," she sighed, reading the caller ID. Moriarty snatched her phone, removed the SIM card and snapped it in two.

"There," he said, giving back the handset, "No longer a problem."

Samantha tilted her head suspiciously.

"You seem to be working very hard to keep me off the radar," she said, "What are you up to exactly?"

Moriarty just smiled and said, "Come inside, we'll have a chat."

He loved being in control. He had finally,_ finally_, gotten into her head, broken her down, exposed her weakness. She was here in his home, sitting on his sofa, drinking his brandy because she had nowhere else to go, he made sure of that. Cutting her off from her employer was cutting her employer off from him. Everything worked out perfectly.

Moriarty gazed at the woman from the armchair opposite her, the amber light from the fireplace flickering on her pretty face and casting shadows across the room. She glanced at him, her olive eyes wide in the dimness. God, she could melt Alaska with those eyes.

"Talk" she said simply, sipping her brandy.

Moriarty smiled and rested his head on one hand.

"I require your special abilities," he replied after moment.

"How _ironic_!" she laughed derisively, "You want me to recruit agents for you too? Because apparently I'm not all that good at it." She downed the rest of her brandy. Moriarty gestured at the bottle on the oak coffee table and she poured herself another glass.

"I need you to make a person," he said, and before she came to any biological implications he added, "I need you to make Richard Brook real: history, job, hobbies, credit card details, social security number - _everything_."

Samantha paused, her features creased in puzzlement.

"But you could do that yourself," she said, "You don't need me."

"Well that's quite true," Moriarty agreed, "But with all this James Bond malarkey I've had to put up with the last while, I'm afraid I'm rather short on time and could do with an assistant. I haven't met anyone more capable than you, my dear."

"Flattering. And if I don't help you?"

Moriarty shrugged. "I have no problem letting your people find you," he said, "As long as you're with me you'll be safe, but you won't be safe if you don't do something for me."

"Fuck you!" she spat, "I wouldn't be here if not for you!"

"No, no, no, my dear," he drawled softly, taking pity on her, "You wouldn't be here if you had stayed out of my business."

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"I've had a long day," she said standing up, "I'll need to sleep on it."

Moriarty approached, taking the brandy glass from her. He wasn't sure when he developed feelings for the woman, he wasn't even sure what those feelings were exactly. It was all the teasing and torment, the game she had thrown him in, the quips and the smiles and those hypnotic wide green eyes that left him with nothing but a burning for her. It wasn't love, no, love was for ordinary people. It was simply an insatiable, incessant, lascivious _desire _for her… But when he tried to kiss her she recoiled, her expression a mixture of doubt and irritation.

Moriarty sighed in acquiescence and said, "Your room is upstairs, second bedroom on the right."

With that, she nodded curtly and left the room.


	12. Chapter 12: Making Peace

Samantha wasn't sure how much she slept or if she slept at all, but the first thing she realised since her head hit the pillow was the dawn breaking through the curtains and the intoxicating smell of bacon and coffee from downstairs. Her stomach rumbled painfully. She couldn't remember the last time she ate. Yesterday morning perhaps?

The events of that day reeled in her mind, from the court case to her encounter with Moriarty. The audacity of him, stealing her away from her life so she could be his little puppet. She wondered how much of a hit the agency had taken because of him. Were they still looking for her? More than likely. She was probably on the most wanted list by now.

Though Moriarty's intentions with her were unclear, she felt safe, that is she hadn't pegged him as the torturing or murdering type, that wasn't his style. No, he seemed happy enough having ruined her life, everything else was just a consolation prize.

Her stomach growled loudly again.

"Fine!" she hissed, forcing herself out of bed and throwing her clothes on. She followed the aroma down the stairs and into the kitchen where Moriarty was cooking breakfast. There was something odd about watching the criminal mastermind standing over a frying pan, clad in a pair jeans and a t-shirt instead of his usual three piece suit. It made him seem…normal.

"Oh good," he said jovially, catching sight of her, "You didn't escape this time. I won't have to throw out all these lovely rashers. Take a seat."

Samantha complied, sitting at the counter where plates and cutlery were laid out.

"So I was thinking about our conversation last night," he continued, flipping the bacon, "And I said to myself 'Jim, maybe you came on a little strongly. The poor girl is wanted for treason for god sake, cut her a little break!' So I decided we should start over. Make peace."

"You're…making peace with bacon?" Samantha asked sceptically.

"Oh honey, you should try my bacon." Moriarty brought over the frying pan, serving a few slices on the plate in front of her. Samantha tasted cautiously, watching the man suspiciously. The flavour was unusual. It wasn't just bacon, it was sweet and sticky and spicy all at the same time.

"Wow," she said, suitably impressed.

"Slathered in honey with just a pinch of cayenne pepper. I may be a criminal genius but I could bring world peace with my cooking."

"You really are insane," Samantha observed.

"Well…yeah," he admitted, "Most geniuses are." He served himself the rest from the frying pan and poured them both a cup of black coffee.

Samantha was glad to have some nourishment inside her and the hot coffee in particular was very comforting. For a moment she had forgotten her worries.

"So, I'm curious," he mused, gesturing with his fork, " this…secret service thing you're with, how did you get yourself involved with them?"

"Eh…I can't really remember," she replied truthfully, "I was a child, eight years old I think. I lived on the streets of Prague with other homeless people, begging and stealing, doing whatever we could to get by. Someone…took me. They took me to a sort of complex, kind of like a school - it _was _a school. I was with other children there and we were taught…everything we know now."

Moriarty made a concise sound of amusement in his throat. "The only home you knew," he said.

"Yes," she replied bitterly, gulping down the lump in her throat. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction of her grief having lost her place in the agency. "But I was dispatched after I turned eighteen. I never saw the school again, nor have I ever had a residence longer than two months. I'm always on the move, always working."

"Huh…Must be lonely."

She shot him a look. She knew exactly what he was doing. He was trying to have her open up, become emotionally vulnerable. Right now that was the only power he had over her, and she wasn't having any of it.

"Don't you ever get lonely?" she asked sweetly, "I mean, from what I can tell from the agency's records the only thing you have close to a companion is Mr. Moran."

Moriarty smiled warmly from behind his coffee mug.

"I don't get lonely," he said, "I get bored. People bore me. I'm more amused in my own company than anyone else's."

"Do I bore you?"

He titled his head slightly, observing her for a moment and replied, "I haven't decided yet."

"Huh. Well when you do decide, let me know. I like to know where I stand with my captors."

"You're not a prisoner here, you're a guest," Moriarty laughed.

"Ah, so do you emotionally blackmail all your guests, or am I just special?"

Moriarty rolled his eyes with humour in his expression and said, "My dear, we both know that I think you are rather exceptional."

That was a compliment, a genuine compliment, and Samantha found herself blushing rather hotly. She cleared her throat and glanced down at her plate, hoping her embarrassment didn't show through her dark skin.

"So how did you get into the…criminal business?" she asked, eager to change the subject.

Moriarty shrugged.

"I'm just…_good _at it," he said, "And ordinary people are sooooo unambitious, you know: '_I want to be a doctor when I grow up_', '_I want to be an astronaut!_'. _Booooo-ring! _Out of the entire planet they only want a teeny tiny fraction of it. What is the _point_? Humans have an average life span of eighty years and most people would rather spend it doing the same mundane crap day in, day out. I'd rather die than endure any amount of _normalcy _on this god forsaken rock."

His mood had evidently soured but Samantha was pleased with his little outburst. She was getting to know him more intimately which gave her more ground in this scenario. She wasn't sure how yet, but she intended to have him crash and burn. He was a man of great pride and she wondered just how much he clung to his ego and what he would do if it was stripped from him.

"So…what, crime is just an outlet for all the times your mother didn't love you enough?" Samantha pushed.

"Oh, please," Moriarty scoffed, "You're giving my mother way too much credit. I made me who I am, not her. Criminal work is unlimited. I can do what I want. Wouldn't have it any other way. Imagine doing what you do but not having to answer to anyone."

"I can certainly see the attraction."

At this point they had both finished their breakfast. Moriarty proceeded to clearing away the dishes. Samantha offered to help but he was having none of it. He had a very contradictory personality.

"Do you like killing people?" Samantha asked, genuinely curious.

"Do you think I'm so petty?" he replied, loading the dishwasher, "I kill people if it's necessary, not because I _like _doing it. I'm a sociopath, not an animal for god sake. Don't insult me."

She understood. Part of her job meant killing if necessary. The only difference between her and Moriarty was that she often felt regret doing so, while he felt nothing.

"Are we done making peace?" she asked.

Moriarty smiled and said, "I take it you want to talk about our arrangement?"

"I doubt I had a choice."

Moriarty lead her into a large room off the main hallway. Bookshelves spanned the walls. A vintage record player stood next to a plush suite of furniture and a liquor cabinet rested opposite. At the end of the room was a very technical looking setup: a rather tall PC tower, five LCD monitors and a desk cluttered with gadgets, tools and wires.

"Sorry about the mess," he said, pretending to be embarrassed, "We've a problem with the maid in that she's, you know, non-existent."

"That's quite alright," Samantha replied, "I assume this is my workshop so?"

"Indeed. I had started the Richard Brook project a while ago but never got any further than jotting down a few bullet points. Everything you need to know is on the desktop. You'll even find a few very dashing photos of yours truly. Try not to let them distract you too much."

Samantha placed a hand on her hip and gave him a look. He stared back, a cheeky expression painting his features.

"When do you need the documentation by?" she sighed.

"As soon as you can," he replied, "I'll be away for a while so you won't be disturbed."

Samantha frowned.

"Away?" she queried, "Where are you going?"

"I'm off to see a man about a consulting detective."

Samantha paused, a breath of exasperation escaped her lips. This was about Sherlock Holmes. Again. She admired Moriarty for the most part, particularly for his intellect, but his obsession with this one man, the lengths he was going through to toy with him were so puerile. What did he have to gain by all of this?

"You know, your fixation on that man will be the end of you," Samantha said earnestly.

The consulting criminal just smiled and said, "Not if I end him first."


	13. Chapter 13: Normalcy

_**Author's Note: Sorry, this chapter is a little slow but the next one will be more interesting. Someone had requested more smut in this story. I can neither confirm nor deny the potential for smut here. I'll guess you'll have to keep reading to find out what happens ; )**_

Samantha was given clear instructions and she set to work immediately. For the most part all she had to do was forge some identification numbers. There were a few items she couldn't fabricate (such as a passport) due to lack of materials for authenticity, but Moriarty left Sebastian Moran to take care of this. Everything else was left in Samantha's hands. She actually had a bit of fun inventing Richard Brook, the actor for children's television. She created a website for a fake acting agency to advertise him. She gave him a page on Wikipedia and IMDb, and even fabricated newspaper articles from Brook's hometown about his progress as an actor. She made sure that his image appeared when his name was typed into Google. That was the easy part. Richard Brook needed genuine identification, he needed to be real. Forging the passport was tricky but not something she hadn't done before. Moriarty had already opened a bank account in Richard Brook's name so credit cards weren't an issue. She did however forge some transactions just for authenticity.

At one point Samantha had stopped an mulled over how very illegal all of this was. She had made sure to work through a proxy server so that her IP address was hidden, but she still couldn't shake off the feeling of how easily she could be caught…and it wasn't the police or the Government she was afraid of getting caught by either.

Over a week had passed and there was no sign of Moriarty. The only person Samantha could contact was Sebastian, and when she asked about Moriarty's whereabouts he just dismissed the question.

While her work kept her occupied, it was soon beginning to drain her so she took a day off. She explored the enormous house from top to bottom. She counted seven bedrooms upstairs, though most were unused and left to the dark and dust. One had been converted to a study and mainly consisted of more books than Samantha could count. The attic room was an observatory with a very impressive telescope reaching up to a large, remote controlled skylight.

_The maniac has interesting hobbies_, Samantha thought.

She found a way down to the cellar which housed dozens of fine wines. She took her time browsing through the different labels, some of which were over a hundred years old. There was something about all of this that indicated to her that Moriarty was more than the sociopath criminal he made himself out to be. Indeed he had extravagant taste in just about everything, but that in itself made him seem very…normal. Everything in this house portrayed Moriarty's human side, a side she had not seen since the night they first met.

"I'm sure he won't miss one bottle," she said to herself, pulling out a 1971 Delord Frres Armagnac.

She returned with the bottle to the kitchen and rooted around for a cork screw and wine glass. At this point the sun was beginning to set and Samantha suddenly became very aware of how quiet the house was. She needed a distraction. She uncorked the wine, letting it breath, and brought it with her to the living room where she switched on the television. There was something…unnerving about her position. Isn't this what ordinary people do? Single people her age sitting in front of the TV, alone with a bottle of wine… There was something so…trivial about it. She thought about what Moriarty had said about not being able to settle for normalcy. She suddenly empathized with him. Her entire life was dedicated to the agency, it was all she knew. She wasn't sure if she could settle for anything less.

As she poured the wine something on the television caught her attention. The news was showing footage of the apartment block Samantha was staying in. She grabbed the remote and turned up the volume.

"-murder of a man and woman is still under investigation as police are looking for the previous resident of the apartment the bodies were found in-"

An artist's rendering of Samantha's face appeared on the screen.

"Looks nothing like me," she scoffed, taking a swig of wine.

By the time she had finished the bottle, she was tired, drunk and a little depressed. She was beginning to feel very lonely. Though she hadn't many personal relationships, her job still required her to interact with people on a daily basis. Being here in the big empty house was wearing on her sanity. She decided it was time for bed. She retired to her room and rummaged her backpack for her toiletries. Her hand met her tablet and she realised that she hadn't used it since before the court hearing. Curious as to what Moriarty had found she switched it on and searched through her files. There they were, the agency's top secret documentation listing projects, missions and agents she had never even heard of. She powered off the tablet again, shaking her head in disbelief. Moriarty would pay for this, this she swore to herself.

Samantha awoke the next morning with a thumping hangover. She cursed herself for drinking an entire bottle of wine last night. She sat up gingerly, her eyes adjusting to the morning light.

"Shower," she said, willing herself out of bed and into the en suite shower. She stood under the warm water until she started to feel more like herself again. "Let's not be depressed today," she said, making a habit of talking to herself.

She stepped out of the shower, towel drying herself thoroughly when she realised she had no clean clothes.

"Bugger!"

She considered an alternative. Wrapping the towel around her body, she crept into Moriarty's room. It was unsurprisingly as lavish as the rest of the house and she rolled her eyes at the four poster bed with luxurious silk sheets. He had a walk in closet which she browsed through for something to wear. His wardrobe mainly consisted of designer suits, though she also found the odd casual wear. Samantha grabbed one of his shirts and threw it over her for the time being. The collar smelled of his cologne and she was suddenly struck with the memory of him kissing her. She let the thought linger for a moment, remembering how his lips felt against hers, his hand warm against her cheek…

She snapped out of it, ridiculing herself for even thinking about him that way. She knew damn well he was trying to manipulate her in any way he could. She huffed and collected her clothes to throw into the wash.


	14. Chapter 14: Pursuit

Cabin fever was setting in and the food supply was dwindling. All week there had not been so much as a peep from either Moriarty or Sebastian Moran. Samantha's patience was fraying. She needed to get out of the house. She needed to go to the city but needed a means to get there. She wondered if a cabbie would accept GPS coordinates as a collection point.

Then an idea hit her. While she was exploring the house previously, she found a cupboard under the stairs, the inner door of which was lined with various keys. Most, she reckoned, belonged to the rooms of the house, but there was a set that fit the front and back door too. To her delight, there was also a set of car keys.

She had always wondered what was in the garage that sat at the back of the house.

Grabbing her jacket and backpack, she exited through the back door towards the garage. Inside, rested a beautiful silver Mercedes.

"Well, aren't you lovely?" she smiled, unlocking the car.

The drive back into the city took about forty minutes with the help of the available Sat-Nav. Samantha parked in a multi-story car park and made her way to the nearest shopping centre. God, it was good to see civilization again. She decided to take her time and browse a few stores while she was here, after all she could do with some new clothes. She usually hated clothes shopping and often found it more of a chore than anything else, but today she was just happy to be out of that house and doing something different.

After trying on a menagerie of different outfits, she decided on a couple of trendy t-shirts and a pair of combats. The lady at the till scanned her items and in a disturbingly cheery disposition said, "That will be £79.97 please!"

Samantha reached for her wallet, pulling out her credit card and was suddenly struck with a horrible realisation.

_I can't use this here, _she thought, _the agency would be able to trace the transaction._

She didn't have enough cash for both food and just one of the t-shirts either.

"Is there a problem?" the cashier queried, noticing her hesitation.

"Uh…" Samantha replied, thinking fast, "I just forgot that this credit card is maxed out. Sorry, I won't be able to pay for these."

"Aw, sorry about that," the lady replied condescendingly, "Do you want me to hold these for you?"

"No thanks, I'll come back next week."

Samantha left the store feeling a little embarrassed. This was just one more thing she no longer had control over. She cursed Moriarty to infinity.

_So much for something different today_, she thought sulkily.

That was the least of her problems, however. Upon passing a newspaper stand, a certain tabloid caught her eye. The double murder she was a suspect for was on the front page. She flicked to page five for the full story and found stills of security footage featuring her with Moriarty, both in the hotel and the restaurant they first met. The article was implying that they were working together.

"Excuse me, miss."

She turned to face a podgy security guard.

"I'll have to ask you to come with me," he said.

_Shit!_

"What's this about?" she asked calmly, while mentally she tried to work out a means of escape.

"We just need to ask you a few questions. Shouldn't take too long."

She nodded solemnly and let the security guard take the lead. From where she stood she could see out to the street below. Two police cars had just pulled up outside the shopping centre. Samantha panicked and dashed for the nearest fire escape.

"Oi!" came the cry of the security guard, but Samantha was already pounding down the concrete stairs, taking two steps at a time and hopping over the banisters when she could. She was a good few flights down when she heard the shouts of multiple guards from above. She just hoped there wasn't any police waiting for her on the ground floor.

She burst through the fire exit into an empty alleyway just in time to hear "Stop! Police!" rounding the corner towards her. She dashed in the opposite direction, turning right into another alleyway. The passage led out to an open space car park where she suddenly felt very exposed.

_Hide! _she thought, ducking behind the cars as she crossed the park. She dashed behind a short wall and crouched for a moment, listening for her pursuers. That was when she noticed two men sitting idly in one of the cars. They were neither police nor security guards but they both were talking into a very familiar model of Bluetooth device. They were agents, and they had just spotted her.

Samantha sprang to her feet, just as the agents hopped out of the car, and sprinted towards the edge of the car park, which was enclosed by a chest high wall. She hopped the wall, adrenaline pumping through her body and leaped over the tall bush that blocked the way. She landed heavily on the side of a busy street, her ankle taking all her weight and she fell forward, meeting the concrete. She turned so that she was in a sitting position only to see the agents gaining fast. Just as she scrambled to her feet she was pulled by the shoulders by two rough hands and she found herself lying supine in the backseat of a car. It took her a few moments to gather her bearings and realise what had just happened. She was lying across the lap of James Moriarty.

"Have I ever told you you're an IDIOT?" he bellowed the last word with intense outrage.

Samantha sat up straight, glancing back at the two agents as they shrank into the distance. They seemed to be unaware of the car she was dragged into.

"Half of Scotland Yard and MI6 looking for you and you decide to go on a bloody shopping spree!" Moriarty continued, his temper not waning.

It was then Samantha noticed the physical state he was in. He was battered and bruised, one eye a pale green with a receding bruise and the corner of his lip swollen and crusted with blood. His arms were discoloured with more bruises both fresh and healing, and his knuckles were skinned as if he had punched a wall. His usually pristine hair was unkempt and he smelled as though he hadn't showered in weeks.

"What on earth happened to you?" Samantha gasped.

"Been partying with elder Holmes, don't you know?" he grumbled.

She decided now was not the time to pry.

"How did you find me?" she asked. The car was moving smoothly through the city and her heartbeat was beginning to slow to a normal pace.

"I didn't," Moriarty snapped quietly, "You got god damn lucky. If not for Seb here, god knows where you would be by now." The driver, whom she assumed to be Sebastian Moran, waved at her in the rear view mirror.

"Well…thank you," she said earnestly, "Both of you. I hadn't realised you cared so much."

"I'm not fond of losing my assets, my dear. If you run away again I will be forced to chain you to the house."

"Excuse me?" she huffed indignantly, "Your asset? I'm not a _thing _that you can profit from. What do you-"

"Well my dear, we can stop the car and you can hitch a ride with the police, or you can shut up for the rest of the journey because I've got a bloody thumping headache."

"Shut up both of you or I'll turn this car around," Sebastian intervened.

Samantha folded her arms and lapsed into silence.

"I dislike you intently, Mr. Moriarty," she hissed petulantly.

What looked like the smallest of smiles appeared at the corner of Moriarty's mouth.

"I told you to call me Jim," he replied.


	15. Chapter 15: What was Necessary

Moriarty observed Samantha pacing her room through the ajar door. She was upset. He had seen the headlines, he knew what it meant to her. She paused, her hand on her forehead, her eyes glistening.

_Don't cry, love_, Moriarty said mentally.

She shut her eyes tight for a moment and when she opened them again her anxiety seemed to have dissipated.

_Atta girl! _thought Moriarty , admiring her resolve.

He continued to his own bedroom, the exhaustion of the weeks passed finally hitting him. He peeled off his t-shirt, having been stuck to his body with sweat and blood, and winced at the pain of reopening his wounds. He glanced in the mirror, examining the damage done. His torso was mostly bruised having taken a brutal kicking from Mycroft's boys, and his skin burnt from where he had been tasered. He cautiously felt around his ribcage to be sure nothing was broken. His back was streaked with blood and puss, the result of a severe whipping session on one of Mycroft's bad days. Most of the deeper wounds had gotten infected from the unclean conditions he had been bunking in. His eye and lip were healing nicely however. Mycroft had insisted the cessation of any head injuries as it disorientated Moriarty, making him a difficult subject to negotiate with. That suited Moriarty just fine.

He sauntered into the en suite and let the shower run for a moment. He pulled a med-kit from the cupboard above the sink and rooted through it until he found a bottle of antiseptic. He then stepped out of his jeans and into the shower. The water temperature was maintained at a comforting lukewarm and for a long moment he stood there letting the water wash down his body. He then turned, clenching his fists in pain as the wounds on his back stung as hot as they had when they were first inflicted on him. He uncapped the antiseptic and slowly poured the contents over his shoulder so that it ran down his back. His eyes watered from both the intensified pain and the stench of the chemical that was burning through the gashes. A cry escaped his throat and he punched a tile, aggravating his already raw knuckles. He stood with his forehead against the wall and endured the agony, his body trembling, aching, stinging, throbbing.

And then a sudden hysteria came over him. It was almost like an involuntary spasm in his diaphragm. The laughter escaped in broken coughs that brought more pain to his ribcage, but he didn't care because no matter how much it hurt, no matter how much physical damage Mycroft had caused, it was nothing, _nothing _compared to the pain he was about to inflict on Sherlock. Mycroft had given him the Holy Grail and that was worth all the beatings and lashings a man could endure.

Moriarty had spent a good thirty minutes in the shower. He dried himself carefully and re-examined himself in the mirror. The gashes on his back were red raw but they were definitely cleaner. He threw on a fresh pair of jeans and went through his med-kit again, taking a few ibuprofen and antibiotics. He then applied Savlon where necessary and bandaged up some of the deeper wounds. Unfortunately, there was only so much of his back that he could reach by himself.

"Need a hand?" Samantha was leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded. Moriarty wondered how long she was standing there.

"Suppose I could use a woman's touch," he replied casually as Samantha crossed the room to him. He handed her the medical supplies and turned his back to her.

"Are you going to explain to me what this is all about?" she asked soberly.

Moriarty sighed blissfully as she rubbed the Savlon over a particularly sore area. He then told her everything. He didn't see the point in lying about it, he needed her in on this. The problem was that she had no compulsion to go along with it. She had no feelings toward Sherlock and she hadn't the same relationship with Moriarty as the rest of his employees. He only hoped that rescuing her earlier and earned some of her loyalty.

"You're an idiot," she stated, stretching a bandage across his back.

"Hmph. That's not the noun I'd use," he replied, feigning offence.

"You could have come out a lot worse than this, Mr. Moriarty."

"I did what was necessary. And call me Jim."

She spun him around so that they were facing each other.

"Necessary," she said bluntly, "Getting the shit kicked out of you was necessary? You're insane! It's actually mind boggling how insane you are! What on earth do you have to gain from this?"

Moriarty shrugged. "I can win," he said simply.

Samantha stared at him, speechless. "You're done," she said after a moment, handing back the medical supplies. Moriarty tucked them away and sat on the edge of the bed as Samantha proceeded to leave the room. She hesitated at the door.

"Forget something?" Moriarty asked.

She sighed and returned to him, an expression of reticence on her face. She then positioned herself on his lap, her legs around his body, and brought her lips to his. He wasn't sure what had prompted her to do so, but nevertheless returned the kiss, bringing his hands to her waist. She leaned forward so that Moriarty was lying on his back, kissing him more deeply. His back still in pain, he turned so that his body was over hers instead. The scab at the corner of his mouth cracked and he tasted the salty warmth of blood.

He wondered what she was thinking, what had urged her to intimacy. Maybe it was that she was alone in the house for so long she missed human contact. Maybe she hadn't been close with someone in a while. The notion that she had feelings for him crossed his mind, but given her demeanour up until now it didn't make sense. Maybe she just needed it, like he needed it. After the events of the passed few weeks they needed to blow off steam.

"I still think you're an idiot," she whispered.

"I know," he replied.

After that he stopped guessing and just let it happen.


	16. Chapter 16: Stalemate

_**Author's note: Thanks all of you for reading/reviewing/faving/following. I'm sorry this chapter is short after I've been away for a while, I've just been super busy lately. I'm also near the end of the story and am having trouble bridging the chapters between here and the end. But hey, I get more inspiration to write with all the positive feedback I get so maybe there'll be a good flow of updates in your inbox from here ;) Thanks again for reading. X**_

"It's not going to work, you know," Moriarty said, nipping Samantha's bare shoulder with his lips. She was lying beside him with her back against him.

It was the morning after and dim light glowed through the curtains. Moriarty ran a hand over her soft skin, smiling slightly at flashes of the night before.

"What isn't?" she replied sleepily.

"Your plan to break my heart."

She glanced back at him, a strange smile on her face. He couldn't determine whether her expression was wry or pitying.

"Oh no," she responded with a half hearted sarcasm, "That's _that _out the window."

"Oh god, you better not be in love with me," Moriarty said, a little disgusted.

She rolled on her back, laughing heartily.

"Does there have to be some ultimate reason?" she chuckled, "A woman has needs, that's all. I'll admit, I had never pegged you as a sexual creature, but I have to say you're quite the tender lover."

Moriarty was mildly offended.

"Excuse me!" he chided, "I've just spent the last two and a half weeks getting the shite kicked out of me. I'm sorry if my stamina wasn't up to par."

She laughed again and he pressed a kiss hard on her lips to shut her up. As much as he wanted it, he still wondered why it happened. Samantha was irate with him right before she kissed him. It was a complete shift of temperament and Moriarty couldn't help but feel a little suspicious. Then again, maybe he was being paranoid. That's what she did to him, drive him crazy. He had half a mind to just kill her and be done with it but she intrigued him too much. When he defeated her, when he ended the game, he thought she would be finished - depressed, suicidal - but there was something about her that said she wasn't done and he was curious as to what her next move might be.

"I want you to work for me," he said, tracing her jaw line with his lips.

"I'm already working for you," she replied, responding with equal affection.

"I'm thinking a more permanent position." He moved to her neck, gently catching her skin in his teeth.

"What's in it for me?" she purred.

"I told you," he returned to her lips, "Your safety."

Her expression hardened and she clutched his jaw with one hand, pushing his face away from hers. Moriarty had already determined that she was a lot stronger than he was and her grip hurt quite a bit.

"But you already promised me that," she growled, vexation in her eyes, "with the Richard Brook documentation. You can't just move the goal posts whenever you feel like it. A deal's a deal."

Moriarty pried her hand from his face and said mockingly, "What kind of criminal would I be if I kept my word?"

Her lip curled in disgust.

"Well let me put it this way," she said, "If I can't trust you, then I have no reason to be here."

"Please!" he snorted derisively, "You wouldn't last a day out there. You already proved that."

"I'm a big girl. I'll figure something out."

Moriarty hesitated, his eyes locked on hers. She smiled coyly. He knew that look. She was up to something.

"Well," he said, jaw tensed, "Seems we've reached a bit of a stalemate."

Her smile broadened and she ran her long fingers through his dark hair.

"How about a proposition then?" she said.

"I'm listening," he replied, his curiosity piqued.

"I help you with this Sherlock debacle you've got going on," she reached up to kiss him softly on the cheek, "and then you make me disappear."

"Disappear?"  
"Oh yes, a new life, a fresh start. I can forge my own identification numbers myself but I need your contacts to publish them for me. And then I want you to take me somewhere I won't be found." She paused thoughtfully. "I'm thinking Hong Kong."

"You've been thinking about this for a while haven't you?" Moriarty sighed.

"You did leave alone in the middle of nowhere for weeks."

"Touché."

"So what say you, Mr. Moriarty, do we have a deal?"

He liked her, liked her too much to give her up. Whatever leverage he had on her was already waning. She adapted to new situations quickly and didn't let anything hold her back. She was smart, she was strong and he needed her.

"We have a deal," he lied through a curt smile


	17. Chapter 17: Stockholm Syndrome

Stockholm syndrome: a psychological phenomenon in which hostages expresses empathy and have positive feelings towards their captors. Though Samantha's position couldn't be wholly defined as a hostage situation, she definitely felt Stockholm setting in. Not only was she assisting Moriarty in his ridiculous endeavours, she was also sleeping with him. Her initial decision to do so was based on pure impulsion and the trepidation of boredom. She was still feeling the after effects of the pursuit that evening and wasn't ready to wind down. There was something thrilling about sleeping with the enemy.

Moriarty laid low while his wounds were healing. Samantha didn't mind and she was grateful for the company. When they weren't working on the Richard Brook project he entertained her enough to pass the time. He shared is collection of classical music and boasted about his extensive library. He challenged her to a few games of chess but Samantha found him almost impossible to beat and he quickly grew bored. She was mostly content in simply talking. He told her stories of his life of crime, most of which she knew already but she let him brag anyway. She talked about some of her missions while in the agency but omitted a lot of content. There were just some things she refused to tell, especially to Moriarty. She planned to never speak to him again once all this was over and that required a certain amount of detachment from him. Though keeping her distance on an emotional level was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing week. Moriarty had always carried a certain charm about him and she found him particularly endearing when he was affectionate.

_It's just Stockholm_, she thought irritably, _You were trained better than this. _

There were times she would snap to her senses when Moriarty would be in one of his darker moods.

"Reichenbach!" she exclaimed one evening in sudden realization to Richard Brook's meaning.

"Oh yes, the case that made Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty replied sullenly.

"Huh," she mused haughtily, "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were jealous of the good -"

Her head whipped to the right as Moriarty struck her cheek hard. She blinked away tears, fighting the urge to massage her stinging cheek.

"Well that was rather civil of you," she scoffed, meeting his eyes.

He averted his gaze, looking almost embarrassed. Samantha couldn't decide whether he was ashamed of himself for striking her, or for his true feelings towards Sherlock being discovered. She slept in her own bed that night.

When Moriarty was fully recovered and the Brook files complete, he spent a lot of time away from the country house, leaving Samantha alone. He left her in charge of contacting and briefing world assassins according to his plan. She knew of many of them, some of which the agency had planned to recruit. Moriarty in the meantime was staying with the journalist Kitty Riley in his bid to smear Sherlock's name. He would be gone for days at a time before Samantha would see him again, but whenever he did arrive back he expressed a deep passion for her, kissing her and touching her as if he hadn't seen her in months. While she enjoyed the physical contact, she grew concerned that Moriarty was becoming too attached to her and would refuse to let her leave at the end of it all.

It was one dreary morning Samantha woke to see someone standing at the foot of her bed.

"I was wondering when you'd-" she stopped speaking when she realised the figure wasn't Moriarty.

"Hello Samantha," the man replied in a crisp Czech accent.

Her heart sank, the familiar face stirring emotion in the pit of her stomach. He was the same as she remembered, except with deeper frown lines and flecks of grey running through his light blond hair. His ice blue eyes, though were now creased at the corners, carried the same expression of kindness she instantly recognised from eight years ago. He had been with her for most of her life since he rescued her from the streets and was the closest thing to a father figure she ever had. He had trained her in many things and even had given her the name Samantha.

"Paolo!" she breathed in disbelief. Though she wanted nothing more than to run into his arms, she quickly realised his purpose for being here. She sprang out of bed, grabbing the gun from her backpack and held it before her.

"I don't want to hurt you, Paolo," she whispered, clasping one hand at the bottom of the gun to hide the fact that there was no clip in it, "But I'll have to ask you to walk away and pretend you were never here."

Paolo remained passive, looking at her with an almost sad kindness.

"I was on a mission in Russia when the agency pulled me out," he said softly, "They said they needed me to find you, said I was the only one you would talk to."

"Paolo it's ok," Samantha said, her voice breaking, "I'm going to disappear, find a new life on the other side of the world and keep a low profile. You don't have to arrest me."

A flicker of confusion crossed the man's face.

"I'm not here to arrest you," he said, "I'm here to rescue you."

Samantha hesitated, processing this information.

"Wait…" she struggled, "What?"

"You sent the agency a call to say you had Moriarty and needed to be extracted," Paolo said at a length, "But when the courier arrived you were both gone. The agency figured something went wrong, that Moriarty had kidnapped you."

"But," she frowned, growing terribly confused, "What about the infiltration on the cloud server? The…the blackmail?"

"Samantha, what are you talking about?"

She proceeded to explain what Moriarty had done, using her identification to steal confidential files and blackmail the agency with the threat of publicity. She showed Paolo the documents Moriarty had downloaded to her tablet.

"Samantha," he said, swiping through the files with a shake of his head, "This isn't us. These documents are fake."

The blood drained from her face.

"He lied," she gasped, her heart beating slow and hard against her ribcage, "He lied about everything. He _did _kidnap me. He _used _me."

She was trembling, her emotions a mixture of hurt, anger and turmoil. She was speechless. This was his plan all along, to force her to be his puppet, to _help _him be the criminal she was sent to catch in the first place.

"Samantha," Paolo soothed, placing a hand on her shoulder, "The agency has given permission to abandon the recruitment of Moriarty. They have also given permission to terminate him."

"I'm such an idiot," she groaned and Paolo wrapped his arms around her. His scent and the warmth of his body were comfortingly familiar.

"Don't beat yourself up," he said, "We all knew what Moriarty was capable of. We knew it would be a dangerous mission."

Samantha pulled back slightly, looking up at him.

"So what now?" she asked.

"The usual procedure for a failed mission," he replied, sweeping her hair from her face, "I'll take you back to the agency so you can make your statement."

She nodded in agreement and added, "Just give me a little time before you do. I need to… say goodbye to Moriarty.


	18. Chapter 18: Checkmate

_**Author's note: I always open one of these with an apology but seriously sorry for leaving you guys hanging. Was kinda busy over Christmas so…yeah. This is the penultimate chapter to the story. I really hope it was worth the wait for you guys. You've all been awesome and I'm so glad you enjoyed my story. The final chapter should be up next week or so. Anyway, hope you like it =)**_

Kitty Riley had all the intelligence and personality of a wooden plank, and Moriarty had grown more weary the longer time he had to spend with her. But it was done now, Sherlock had finally caught up…and the look on his face… Moriarty literally saw the penny drop when Riley explained who Richard Brook was. Watson, predictably, lost his temper, but Sherlock remained reserved, the gears in his head turning, realising the game had changed and a new set of rules were in play. Moriarty met his eyes while Riley's back was turned, silently gloating, and Sherlock responded with what seemed to be a look of admiration for the consultant criminal. A victory for Moriarty if there ever was one. And so he made a dramatic exit, leaving the checkerboard open for Sherlock to make his next move…if he hadn't already decided to forfeit that is.

He arrived back at the mansion that night. He was looking forward to seeing Samantha again, her company at least was stimulating in comparison to that red-headed reporter. He paused as he turned off the ignition, contemplating for a moment his relationship with the woman. She was valuable to say the least, more competent than most of his employees anyway, but she was in his head more often than he was comfortable with. Moriarty had always considered romance a weakness, Adler had proven that, and he was torn between keeping her on a leash or killing her. The logical side of him told him to do the latter, but then an intimate moment with her would flash in his mind and he couldn't bring himself to do it. Samantha was like a drug, one which Moriarty was very much addicted to and he hated himself for it.

Sighing he proceeded to the front door and opened it with a cheerful, "Honey, I'm h-"

A flash of pain as the corner of something hard and metal struck his jaw. Moriarty stumbled to the side, clutching the stairway banister for support. He shook his head a few times trying to stop the world from spinning and massaged the throb in his jaw. He was then pushed and in his disorientation he allowed himself to fall, collapsing into a seated position on the stairs. He gazed up to see the woman towering over him, gun in one hand, her olive eyes smouldering with hatred. He didn't need an explanation. In that moment he realised, something he had predicted long ago, that she knew.

"You lied to me," she spoke, her voice low and menacing, "You took everything from me, locked me up in this house, used me to do your dirty work, used me like I was a common whore. How long did you think you could get away with it, Jim? How did you think this would end?"

He gave a snort of amusement as she addressed him by his first name for the first time. Samantha raised the gun.

"How did you think this would end?" she repeated.

Moriarty had always imagined how he would die. At the hands of a scorned lover was further down the list than most but he only blamed himself for not seeing it coming in light of recent circumstances.

"I hadn't really planned that far ahead," he admitted, his exterior cool, "Half assumed you'd never figure it out to be honest."

Samantha smirked and dropped to a crouch so that they were at eye level with each other.

"I told you not to underestimate the agency," she purred and the softness in her voice stirred something in Moriarty's chest.

"I had thought about killing you if it helps," he replied, "I was disappointed that you hadn't made a move since I brought you here. And that Hong Kong proposition was weak. Very disappointing."

"And yet here we are," she said, tapping the gun against his cheek as if to remind him that she was in control.

He was annoyed with himself for being in this position. He should have thought ahead but he was too wound up with Sherlock to regard Samantha as a threat.

"Are you going to shoot me?" he said, feigning boredom.

"Yes," she replied without so much as a blink.

"You know you haven't won."

Samantha stood then, taking a few steps back so that there was room between her extended arm and Moriarty.

"This isn't winning, my dear," he spoke, pulling himself to his feet and stepping slowly towards her, "This is forfeiting, admitting defeat." He strode steadily until the barrel of the gun was touching his chest. His eyes fixated on her face. She was trying to remain expressionless and she was succeeding too if not for the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. Her plump lips were slightly parted and the temptation to kiss her tugged at the recesses of his mind. He took her wrist and moved it so that her gun pointed at his forehead.

"And I would die happy knowing that I beat you at your own game," he concluded, locking his eyes on hers, "So kill me."

Samantha hesitated. Moriarty tilted his head in mild amusement. He knew she had nothing on him. If she kills him, he wins, if she doesn't, he still wins. Samantha may have been holding the gun but it was Moriarty that had declared checkmate.

"Kill me!" he bellowed, his patience fraying with the woman.

Samantha cocked the gun and took a step back regarding him with what appeared to be scepticism.

"You want to die," she stated.

He shrugged dismissively and said, "That's what people do."

"No, no, no," she said with a shake of her head, "You're not the type to accept your own fate just like that. I mean, the _lengths _you have gone through to get me here, so that I couldn't defame you, so that I couldn't recruit you in the agency. I don't believe for a second that you just give up when death stares you in the face. You _want _to die."

Moriarty remained silent, curious to see where she was going with this.

"You're just a child," Samantha continued, sliding the clip from her gun, "Playing in your sandbox, frying ants with your magnifying glass. Everything is a game to you. You have no purpose or direction. Life doesn't challenge you or reward you for your intelligence. And that's why you're jealous of Sherlock Holmes. The media love him, the criminals want to challenge him. But you don't really have that. Everything that comes your way is too boring, too mundane and that's why you always have to twist things your own way, to make it interesting to you. But it's not enough. It never is, is it Jim?"

"I find your monologue boring if that's what you mean," Moriarty quipped, growing irritated, "I should have known you'd chicken out and not shoot me. You're only as predictable as everyone else in this world."

Samantha smiled softly and stepped towards him, clutching the sides of his face with both her hands. Was she going to kiss him?

"I'm not going to kill you," she said, her smile widening, "But I am going to make sure that you will never hear the end of me. I'll be in your sandbox, kicking down your sandcastles and stealing your toy soldiers. I'm going to be watching you and sabotaging everything you work for. For as long as it takes to break you, I'll make sure that the rest of your life is a living hell."

He should have killed her when he had the chance. He would have there and then had she not been an armed woman with the combat skill of a trained soldier. And now she was going back to her precious agency so she could torment him from behind a bullet proof wall.

"Checkmate," she said.

There came the crunch of tires against gravel from outside. Samantha took a few steps backward, her smile spelling victory, and she grabbed her backpack that had been propped against the door and left. Moriarty followed, watching as she hopped in the car with someone he assumed she worked with. He took note of the model and licence plate and pulled out his phone to order a hit. It was then he realised he had gotten a text message:

Come and play.

Bart's Hospital rooftop.

SH

A better idea had formed in his mind just then. Moriarty had unfinished business and he wanted to show Samantha just how serious he was about destroying Sherlock Holmes.


	19. Chapter 19: End Game

_**Author's note: So…yeah, this should have been posted weeks ago…my bad. But hey better late than never: my final chapter! This scene from the series was actually the main inspiration for Game Changer. Having read through the entire story I've noticed a few plot holes and inconsistencies but I guess that's what I get for working on it on and off over the best part of several months. I might revise it at a later date but I'm actually sort of thinking of a sequel if anyone is willing to read it. Again, I want to thank all who have supported this story. I probably would never have finished it if not for you guys. Hope you had as much fun reading it as I have writing it. Peace out, all! ^_^**_

It was a mild day in London. The sun strained through the low hanging clouds, making the ever changeable weather unpredictable. Moriarty reached St. Bart's rooftop and inhaled a lung full of fresh air. London city sprawled out before him, the bustling metropolis of angels, deadbeats and outright mundane citizens, all of which were mindlessly toiling away with their frivolous lives, non the wiser as to the performance that was about to unfold above them.

With no sign of Sherlock, Moriarty texted the detective and patiently awaited his arrival. He sat on the edge of the roof, gazing down at the busy street below. The view from this height reminded him of something Samantha had said.

_You're just a child, playing in your sandbox, frying ants with your magnifying glass. _

He could fry them all, all those people down there, but it would be too easy. What would be the point? There was no greater torment than existing on the same plane as those lesser than him. Sure, with his intelligence he could run like any power hungry businessman and take whatever he wanted, but the world wasn't enough when no one could understand you. Samantha understood. But he raised the stakes too high and she saw through his bluff. She was gone, she chose the side of the angels.

Moriarty's phone rang, the terrible BeeGees song playing through the tinny speakers. It was Sebastian, but Moriarty refused to speak with him when he had already given precise orders. Instead he let the phone ring out, the lyrics of the song a haunting reminder of his predicament.

At the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock emerge onto the roof. For a moment he wouldn't stir, his foul humour clouded his thoughts.

"Oh," he spoke drearily as the detective advanced cautiously, "Here we are at last, you and me, Sherlock, and our problem, the final problem... Staying alive!" He raised the phone by way of emphasizing his point and grimaced as the reminder tugged unpleasantly in his mind.

"It's so boring, isn't it?" he asked rhetorically, hanging up the phone with a snap. Sherlock was circling him guardedly.

"It's just…" Moriarty sailed a hand out steadily, "staying…" He brought his hand back, burying his face in his arm as Samantha's words rang in his mind again.

_You're not the type to accept your own fate just like that. You _want_ to die._

He did want to die. He liked to think he spent the majority of his life building up to his death. He wanted to make sure he went out in a blaze of glory. Somewhere along the line, in all his efforts to not leave this world an ordinary person, he seemed to have forgotten that…until Samantha reminded him.

"All my life I've been searching for a distraction," Moriarty continued, "You were the best distraction, and now I don't even have you, 'cause I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy." And for all his effort to beat Sherlock he was completely blindsided by the one woman he hadn't counted on being defeated by.

"It was easy," he muttered miserably, "And now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people, and it turns out _you're _ordinary just like all of them." He buried his face in his hands and then something in his head pushed aside the misery and reminded him why he was on the roof in the first place. This is where it was supposed to end. This was supposed to be Sherlock's fall.

"Oh well," he sang casually and stood to approach his adversary. This is where it was going to end.

On a rooftop across from St. Bart's, Samantha watched the scene unfold before her. To her dismay, she couldn't make out what either the criminal or the detective were saying but the discussion seemed rather heated. Moriarty wanted to destroy Sherlock, drag his name through the dirt, so what were they doing way up here? She cursed herself for not enquiring more about Moriarty's plans while she was working with him, but the man was so changeable it probably wouldn't have made a difference.

Her heart stopped as Sherlock pushed Moriarty to the edge of the roof. Was he going to kill him? What was going on over there?

"Sam," Paolo's voice crackled in her ear piece.

"Not now," she snapped, eyes focused on the men.

"Sam, I think I'm being watched."

Samantha let out a groan of exasperation.  
"Just…five more minutes, Paolo," she hissed, "I can't lose Moriarty's trail."

She crouched, her legs growing weary from standing for so long. The weeks she spent in the country house had taken a toll on her fitness. She needed to start training again and soon. Keeping tabs on Moriarty was going to be a challenge after all.

Sherlock pulled Moriarty away from the roof edge and Samantha was surprised that this relieved her. She never fully understood what she felt for the consultant criminal. The intimacy she shared with him was certainly memorable but she felt so betrayed when she found out the truth about him. Was this why she was doing this, trying to retaliate? Did she feel hurt because she had feelings for him to begin with?

"What are they doing?" Paolo urged.

"Just talking," she replied dismissively, but then she stood, her attention focused as Sherlock stepped onto the edge of the roof. "Shit, Paolo, he's going to jump!"

So this was Moriarty's big plan, have Sherlock die in disgrace while the whole world watched. He was kicking him out of his sandbox - there was only room for one ego in there.

Then something peculiar happened. Sherlock was laughing and he turned, hopping back onto the roof to approach Moriarty who seemed to be irate with the man. There was more talking. Samantha was frustrated she was missing out on something important here. The two men faced each other, standing intimately close and then…they shook hands. Samantha frowned. Something wasn't right. In one smooth movement, as if to prove her concern, Moriarty drew a gun from his coat and put a bullet through his own mouth. Her stomach sank as the consultant criminal collapsed, blood tricking from the back of his head. She turned, taking a few steps away from the edge, her face in her hands.

"Oh god," she breathed, her heart thumping. She turned back to face St. Bart's. Sherlock seemed to be in as much disarray as she was. Moriarty wanted to die. Did he know she was watching? Was this part of his plan? A million more questions raced through her mind.

"Samantha?" Paolo queried through the ear piece.

"Moriarty is dead," she said, trying to keep her voice steady, "Suicide."

There was silence on the other end.

She then noticed that Sherlock was again standing on the edge of the hospital roof, phone in one hand.

"Paolo, Sherlock is still going to jump," she said urgently, "Can you do anything to stop it?"

"I'm in range of one of Moriarty's snipers," her partner replied, "He's watching me. I can't intervene."

"_Fuck_!" she cried as all the pieces were falling into place. Moriarty had used and made a fool of her, and he died knowing that she never got a chance to even the score. Not only that, but he died knowing that he had also beaten Sherlock, and as the detective stepped off the roof, so too did Samantha resignedly admit defeat.

"Well played, Moriarty," she said, hot tears of frustration prickling her eyes, "Well played."


End file.
